The sixth novel
THE WINDS OF WINTER - GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
twisted in his chains. He knew that voice. Stannis.
Theon Greyjoy chortled. A stab of pain went up his arms,
from his shoulders to his wrists. All he had done, all he had
suffered, Moat Cailin and Barrowton and Winterfell, Abel and
his washerwomen, Crowfood and his Umbers, the trek
through the snows, all of it had only served to exchange one
tormentor for another.
"Your Grace," a second voice said softly. "Pardon, but your
ink has frozen." The Braavosi, Theon knew. What was his
name? Tycho... Tycho something... "Perhaps a bit of heat... ?"
"I know a quicker way." Stannis drew his dagger. For an
instant Theon thought that he meant to stab the banker. You
will never get a drop of blood from that one, my lord, he might have
told him. The king laid the blade of the knife against the ball
of his left thumb, and slashed. "There. I will sign in mine own
blood. That ought to make your masters happy."
"If it please Your Grace, it will please the Iron Bank."
Stannis dipped a quill in the blood welling from his thumb
and scratched his name across the piece of parchment. "You
will depart today. Lord Bolton may be on us soon. I will not
have you caught up in the fighting."
"That would be my preference as well." The Braavosi slipped
the roll of parchment inside a wooden tube. "I hope to have
the honor of calling on Your Grace again when you are seated
no idea.. amazon only...